Jeremy King, Hollywood über-agent to the stars, knows that sharks gotta swim. He’s one of them, after all. He’s never met a deal he couldn’t strike or an argument he couldn’t win. LA is his kind of town—they both never stop moving.

So when his friend and client, movie star Andrew Pettigrew, invites him on a “man-cation” to the wilds of Idaho for a little fly-fishing, Jeremy’s not so sure. He might not have cell service. There’s no way there’ll be any supermodels to woo. And his idea of the great outdoors is a drive down the Pacific Coast Highway in his Tesla Model S—moose definitely do not factor into the picture.

Fitting then that because of a moose, he meets Macy Shea Summerlin, the best fly-fishing guide on the South Fork. Jeremy’s surprised and tantalized, but Macy isn’t having any of his alpha male posturing. She gives as good as she gets, and she knows how to throw a mean right hook.

As the two of them get tangled up in each other’s lives, both Jeremy and Macy must come to terms with winning and losing and letting love in. And Jeremy has to find the answer to his own question: Is he simply “using” Macy or could he really “use” someone like her? Find out in Use Somebody, book 3 of the Fix You series.

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I look at the wide fresh scar on the palm. “And how did you do that again?”
Her face clouds over for a moment. Her brows knit together, the eyes go down to the counter, her lips press into a thin line. Then she looks up at me, transformed, a smile on her face and a shrug on her shoulders. “Stupidity.” She tilts her head, waiting for me to tease her or laugh it off.
I don’t. “No, Macy, really. How did that happen?”
“I already told you, I was helping a guest gut a fish and gutted my hand instead.”
I lean closer to her. “Then how come every time I ask your face looks like somebody ran over JT over there?”
Her smile drops. “I do not.”
I point the loaf of bread at her. “No, don’t lie. I hate lies. Your face tells a different story, even if it’s just for five seconds, until you paste the fake-girl smile on. Something bad happened.”
I swear her eyes well with tears. Then she shakes her head no, tosses her hair, like she’s shaking the memory to the edges of her mind, or clearing the etch-a-sketch of a horrible image. She’s still for a moment.
“Lots of bad stuff happened. Life happened. This?” She holds the palm up. “This is nothing. I cut it gutting a fish. End of story.”
It’s clear from her tone, clear that she’s not trying to lie. She’s trying to get me on board with the approved story. Trying to protect herself by putting another witness in her court. Another witness to stand up for her.
If that’s what she needs right now, so be it. “Fine. Don’t tell me now. But don’t lie. I fucking hate liars.”
She seizes on an opportunity to change the subject. “Mouth! You, Mr. King, need a swear jar.”
She jumps up and starts rifling through the cabinets. In the cabinet to the left of the oversized Subzero she succeeds. “Aha!”
She pulls out a mason jar and plunks it on the kitchen island. “Put a buck in there.”
“What?” I’ve cracked an egg and use the shell to separate the white from the yolk.
“You owe the swear jar a buck. Out on the river, I’ll keep track for you. At the end of the night, you come home and put your fine in the jar.”
It hurts me to hear the strain in her voice. I answer, help her forget our earlier discussion. “Who gets the jar at the end of the week?” She’s trying so hard to lighten things up, steer the conversation far away from her. Her wounds.
“Consider it an extra tip to your favorite river guide.”
I point to the back pocket of my jeans. “Wallet’s in there.”
She smirks. “I don’t think so. I’m not touching your butt.”
I hold my hands up. “I’m covered in egg. Just grab the wallet.”
She rolls her eyes and comes over to me. The weird scruffy dog lifts his head up, watches her. She stands behind me for a minute and lingers. I smell her and feel her warmth against my back. I take a breath in through my nose and try to exercise some restraint. “Fine.” She quickly snatches the wallet out of my pocket and pulls a bill out.
It’s a twenty. She frowns. “No, it’s a buck for the jar.” She pulls the billfold wider and thumbs through the bills.
“What?” I’m back to cooking. I don’t look up. I know exactly what.
“There’s nothing smaller than a twenty in here, Mr. King.”
I keep my head down. “Guess a twenty will have to do.”
She huffs and plucks one out, stuffs it in the new swear jar. “You are a piece of work.”
“So I’ve been told.”